


Worth Its Weight

by rabbitprint



Category: RahXephon
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-01
Updated: 2010-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:45:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Makoto and Helena short, prompt: ‘gold, rahxephon, isshiki’, spoilers. Makoto and Helena may work for the same organization, but they are far from working together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth Its Weight

Makoto does a great many things for the Foundation that he does not enjoy. He supposes that he should be used to it; he should already be familiar with the self-disgust and bile, should be _past_ familiar and well into craving whatever small task Bahbem throws his way. All others of his generation scurry to obey whenever the assignments are passed out, eager to prove themselves of value. Even the elders in his lineage accept their duties with gratitude.

Sometimes Makoto wonders if his own personal revulsion is the only thing that grants him an identity, a sense of self that has not been crushed into the wheel of obedience that the Foundation demands.

He is no teacher. He is no soldier.

He is Makoto Isshiki, and he is what he has been made.

“If it’s about the Panama trip, you won’t change my mind,” Helena announces when he pushes into her office. This is her version of _hello_. “I fully intend to collect my own data there whether you like it or not, so stop trying.”

He pauses for dramatic effect, but mostly to wait for the door to slide shut behind him. This conversation is not meant to be overheard.

“That’s not why I stopped by today.” Now that he has her attention, he prowls forward. “While I was visiting the doctors for my travel inoculations, I happened to also notice several of the latest batch of D’s. Did you _know_ ,” he continues, picking each word out of the air, “that they’re coming out with blond hair instead of white now? I wonder where they got _that_ change from?”

Helena does little more than raise a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Quite likely from turning on a few switches in the vats, or whatever they do to produce your kind.” She picks up a pen, glancing back at the paperwork on her desk: an obvious dismissal.

Makoto lets the jab slide past this time. “Oh, I don’t know,” he teases, spinning out the trap. “That shade of gold -- it looks _just_ like yours.”

On the papers, Helena’s hands freeze. Makoto watches them in the corners of his eyes, twin slender doves, perfectly manicured together and far more violent than his own. He doesn’t have to imply that she donated willingly. Regardless of rank or purpose, all their genetic codes are on file for use by the scientists: B-Itsuki, B-Helena, D-failures. Everyone has a designation number and file. Bahbem is a great believer in backing up his data.

Both Makoto and Helena know that very well.

He takes advantage of their situation with as little shame as he can swallow. “Imagine _that_ ,” he purrs. “ _Your_ genetic pattern mixed with mine.” It hurts him to say the rest, makes his gorge rise, but the way Helena’s pretty mouth twists in disgust almost makes the statements worthwhile. “Mixed with _D’s_. How _ever_ do you stand it?”

“What an absurd claim,” she accuses, but he can see the flicker of doubt in her eyes, quick and fearful. He’s always been able to read her too well. She hates him for it. “My Uncle would never degrade my strain in such a way.”

“Really? I suppose you won’t be visiting them to see for yourself, will you? Just think of it, Helena.” Time to turn the knife. Makoto plants his hands on the polished mahogany desk and leans forward, feeling tingles of blood climb up his wrists from the pressure. “They’re almost like our _children_.”

Helena’s hand clenches on her pen. The cap clicks loose underneath her thumb; it slides off the end and lands on her paperwork, rolling with the finality of a spent casing.

“I have a few days until my flight leaves,” Makoto states, not fighting to keep any hint of smugness out of his voice. “Maybe I’ll stop by before I go and see how our little spawn are doing.”

Before Helena can gather her wits to reply, he turns on his heel and strides out of the neat climate-controlled office. Despite the pretense of haste, he takes his time with each step; he walks slowly until he hears a soft, muffled curse with her voice attached.

He knows, then, he _knows_ that she will change her travel plans. She will not fly out as scheduled tomorrow morning. She will not be there to hinder his work in Panama when his plane touches down in the afternoon. Instead, Helena will investigate the rumor that he has laid, unable to ignore the blight upon her pride -- and that will make the lie almost worth crafting in the end.

Almost.


End file.
